Haircut: A Hero’s Journey

In this newspaper, I have revealed that I have hoarded toilet paper, attempted an extramarital (Platonic) relationship with a lady chicken, worn an Elvis wig and a man-girdle, lied to my wife about landing a lucrative job as a cub reporter, wept copiously on the playground of my youth, had panic attacks just about everywhere, and misplaced my deceased father’s body. 

The evidence is incontrovertible – I’m unreliable, faint-hearted, inept. My wife, Mary, on the other hand, is exceptional. Her superb qualities are myriad, but I will linger over just three – her brainpower, her beatific nature, and her good hair. 

Mary 2018

Brainpower: In college, Mary majored in physics because, to quote her directly, “I chose the major that required the least number of credits.” I believe Stephen Hawking was a physics major, too. Just sayin’. 

Beatific nature: Every single person who meets Mary instantly likes her. It borders on the bizarre. Mahatma Gandhi could stand next to Mary at a party holding $1,000 in his left hand and a sign in his right that read, “This $1,000 is yours if you smile at me first,” and every person in the room would smile at Mary first. Sorry, Mahatma, she’s just . . . so darn lovable!

Ah, but let us now consider number three, Mary’s much admired “good hair.” And it is here, where – against all odds – I become the hero of this little photo-essay. 

So, what does “good hair” mean? I googled it, and these words and phrases came up: “lush, full of body, wavy, curly, shiny, thick” . . . and the one that most impressed and unnerved me, “no breaking when styling.” You can break hair?!

Like a long-neglected rose bush, good hair that has not been to a hair salon and properly groomed by a trained professional for four pandemic months . . .

. . . becomes for the untrained husband who is tasked with the job of cutting it – well, let my words speak for themselves . . .

“Sweetheart,” I whispered. “I’m frightened.”

“On take-off, dear,” Mary said, “it’s very important for the pilot not to tell the passenger he’s frightened.”

Look at those photos! What I was up against. An unyielding thicket of hair, a fierce tangle – like those impenetrable hedgerows in France that bedeviled the advancing Allied forces in WWII. Yes, I was a clueless GI and somehow, through some miracle, I was supposed to turn into Edward Scissorhands and sculpt the unruly hedgerow engulfing Mary’s head into a topiary wonder. Impossible!

Mary said, “No matter how this turns out, dear, I love you.”

No matter how this turns out! Oh my god. She knew what was about to befall her. Of course she knew – so few have been the triumphs in my life!  

In the heat of battle, some men cut and run. Well, that’s what I was about to do, when suddenly, a voice in my head said: You’re holding a pair of scissors – you’re forbidden to run. Which meant, all I could do . . .  was cut.

I took hold of a curly lock. Snip.

Snip, snip.

Then – I don’t know what possessed me – suddenly I was Jon Scissorhands! I began to cut and snip and trim and clip. Hair flew in all directions! It was intoxicating. I was in The Zone. All fear dropped away. There was only me, and a vision of hirsute success. Reader, behold the results!

July 15, 2020

The only sour part of my triumph was when I handed Mary a bill for $150,000. It’s what they pay me as a cub reporter at the Swarthmorean, and cutting hair is, like, way harder. Mary ripped the bill into confetti, and as it fluttered down around us, she pulled me close, and just before kissing me, whispered two words I hadn’t heard since our wedding night.

“My hero,” she said.

Which was nice, but would it have killed her to tip, say, even just five percent on the price of her amazing new haircut?

Writer Jon Cohen lives in Swarthmore.